Smudge Of Blood Poem by Nooruddeen Mathilakathveetil
Here, this smudge of blood,
Of a tender boy of eleven,
Soaked thru the tarmac,
Yet to be dried, still wet and warm!
An innocent young lad,
Fades-in my mind,
Your bag! Your bag!
Picking up a shopping bag,
Shouting and chasing the biker,
Who slings the bag into the crowd,
And cruises at a high speed.
Shouting repeatedly in vain,
Albeit he ran a bit far away from the crowd,
Your Bag! Your Bag!
Still shouting…
Oh! Sudden, the shopping bag explodes
Shredding in to pieces, the poor boy.
Scattering around his fresh flesh all over.
“My son! ” “My son! ”
The horror stricken mother gasps.
Dreadfully aloud and running to the spot,
Where her son has been ripped,
Plight of the mother is tearful.
Compassions and rancours surge up,
Cries and sighs of the shocked crowd, aghast.
Mother out of sense of mind,
Insanely hasten gathering,
Of her only beloved son’s tender bod.
Warm blood dripping fleshes, broken skul,
Clasping to her bosom
“Oh! My Son, My Son. ‘
Weeping and wailing with a grief uncontrollable,
Caving into the pool of blood…sans…consciousness. ……………………………………………………
……………………………………………………
Appalling brutality and the terror,
Of evil minds, will get over when?
Open your eyes, empathize,
NO reward of Heaven, for shedding the innocent blood.
NO reward of Heaven, for this distress of mothers.
What remains is just this smudge of blood…
Nettles Poem by Vernon Scannell
My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.
‘Bed’ seemed a curious name for those green spears,
That regiment of spite behind the shed:
It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears
The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
White blisters beaded on his tender skin.
We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.
At last he offered us a watery grin,
And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
Stood upright any more. And then I lit
A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
But in two weeks the busy sun and rain
Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:
My son would often feel sharp wounds again.
A Father To His Son Poem by Carl Sandburg
A father sees his son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum monotony
and guide him among sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
and left them dead years before burial:
the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
has twisted good enough men
sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use against other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.
Anc And The Struggle Poem by Chinedu Dike
January 1912, Mzansi brought forth a child
In a harsh political climate
Destined to free her people
Bound to cruel Fate
Long Live Child Of Necessity!
Viva ANC!
His growth fraught with perils
But nurtured by sons and daughters of the soil
Deprived of dignity and birthright
Whose principal offence is not being ‘White’
Long Live Son Of The Soil!
Viva ANC!
His clarion call an impetus to the Struggle
Unifying localized forces of Freedom
Into mass-based Liberation Movement
Brought into the realm of Global Awareness
Long Live Symbolic Leader Of The Struggle!
Viva ANC!
Fighting against enormous odds
Together with hopeful but ill-equipped natives
Onto the spirit he anchored Power
Victory guaranteed on Resolve
Long Live Son Of Hope!
Viva ANC!
Braving the slammer, torture, bullet…
Massacre of his warriors the order of the day
Energized by tears and blood of compatriots
Civil Disobedience intensify with Sabotage
Long Live The Indomitable Warrior!
Viva ANC!
At long last, victory and jubilation
Forces of Liberty topple forces of Oppression
Embracing ‘no winner no loser’ notion
He calls for ‘Rainbow Nation’
Long Live Son Of Liberty!
Viva ANC!
Long Live The Symbol Of Human Dignity!
Viva The Legacies Of African National Congress!
NOTES: Mzansi is the affectionate name for South Africa.
Depicted in the poem is the awesome story of
The African National Congress (The ANC)
as a Liberation Movement, from its inception
on 8 January 1908 up to its momentous victory
at the 1994 first generation election.
Since gaining political power, The ANC
has increasingly changed from a Freedom
Movement to an ordinary Political Party.
And for the suffering and disillusioned masses,
democracy has proved to be a mirage:
their once hopeful assertion of Black Rule
has become an anticipation of a flashy illusion.
The ANC albeit a shadow of its former self,
has continued to maintain political power
without pause through the power of thumb.
I’m In Love Poem by Charles Bukowski
she’s young, she said,
but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,
and look at my wrists, I have pretty
wrists
o my god,
I thought it was all working,
and now it’s her again,
every time she phones you go crazy,
you told me it was over
you told me it was finished,
listen, I’ve lived long enough to become a
good woman,
why do you need a bad woman?
you need to be tortured, don’t you?
you think life is rotten if somebody treats you
rotten it all fits,
doesn’t it?
tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a
piece of shit?
and my son, my son was going to meet you.
I told my son
and I dropped all my lovers.
I stood up in a cafe and screamed
I’M IN LOVE,
and now you’ve made a fool of me…
I’m sorry, I said, I’m really sorry.
hold me, she said, will you please hold me?
I’ve never been in one of these things before, I said,
these triangles…
she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all
over.she paced up and down,wild and crazy.she had
a small body.her arms were thin,very thin and when
she screamed and started beating me I held her
wrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred,
centuries deep and true.I was wrong and graceless and
sick.all the things I had learned had been wasted.
there was no creature living as foul as I
and all my poems were
false.
My Son Poem by Aufie Zophy
My son, I can see so many good things in you
And here I am really honest and true.
My son, I love it when your caring heart opens wide
When I had a headache you came and sat by my side
My son, some of your talents for drawing, I have seen
You are really good at it, believe me, fantastic, I mean
My son, there are really so many good things in you.
Even so far, I have mentioned just two
My son, you have a talent for language, you do
Yes learning a language is easy for you
My son, Here’s number three, there is so much more
So much more in you, I truly adore
My son, I do understand that being 14 is quite challenging
There are so many things changing
But please my very lovely son,
Keep on bringing out the good that’s in you, please keep on.
Your loving father, Papa
God Poem by Kahlil Gibran
In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God, saying, ‘Master, I am thy slave. Thy hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee for ever more.’
But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest passed away.
And after a thousand years I ascended the holy mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, ‘Creator, I am thy creation. Out of clay hast thou fashioned me and to thee I owe mine all.’
And God made no answer, but like a thousand swift wings passed away.
And after a thousand years I climbed the holy mountain and spoke unto God again, saying, ‘Father, I am thy son. In pity and love thou hast given me birth, and through love and worship I shall inherit thy kingdom.’
And God made no answer, and like the mist that veils the distant hills he passed away.
And after a thousand years I climbed the sacred mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, ‘My God, my aim and my fulfilment; I am thy yesterday and thou art my tomorrow. I am thy root in the earth and thou art my flower in the sky, and together we grow before the face of the sun.’
Then God leaned over me, and in my ears whispered words of sweetness, and even as the sea that enfoldeth a brook that runneth down to her, he enfolded me.
And when I descended to the valleys and the plains, God was there also.
Ballade Of Unfortunate Mammals Poem by Dorothy Parker
Love is sharper than stones or sticks;
Lone as the sea, and deeper blue;
Loud in the night as a clock that ticks;
Longer-lived than the Wandering Jew.
Show me a love was done and through,
Tell me a kiss escaped its debt!
Son, to your death you’ll pay your due-
Women and elephants never forget.
Ever a man, alas, would mix,
Ever a man, heigh-ho, must woo;
So he’s left in the world-old fix,
Thus is furthered the sale of rue.
Son, your chances are thin and few-
Won’t you ponder, before you’re set?
Shoot if you must, but hold in view
Women and elephants never forget.
Down from Caesar past Joynson-Hicks
Echoes the warning, ever new:
Though they’re trained to amusing tricks,
Gentler, they, than the pigeon’s coo,
Careful, son, of the curs’ed two-
Either one is a dangerous pet;
Natural history proves it true-
Women and elephants never forget.
L’ENVOI
Prince, a precept I’d leave for you,
Coined in Eden, existing yet:
Skirt the parlor, and shun the zoo-
Women and elephants never forget.
End Racism Poem by Robert M Hensel
We all must bring our
Racism to end.
A message to all, I long to send.
The colors of the world,
All join as one.
For the Lord is our shepherd,
And we as his son.
Christ made all man in the
Likes of him.
So please let us all, “End Racism”.
Morning Man Poem by Howard The Motivational Poet Simon
Delivered from darkness
A great lover of the light
Rising extremely early
working with all my might
Others are still sleeping
While I am wide awake
Maximizing every moment
Energized from spiritual intake
In the day I make progress
Excelling in an excellent way
Following closely my plans
From my priorities never stray
I am a man of the morning
The Son shines in my heart